


Everyone's Rooting For You

by AppleSharon



Series: (I Wanna) Call It Love [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Eventual Romance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-30 18:54:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19409311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleSharon/pseuds/AppleSharon
Summary: “And if it helps, I thought you two were already involved.”Aziraphale blushed a bright red.“Ah. Ahem. Was it because of the prophecy?”Anathema raised an eyebrow. She resisted rolling her eyes.“No,” she said simply, leaning forward across the kitchen table to look at him directly. “It was because I have eyes.”Anathema is here to help Aziraphale sort out his thoughts on a certain demon, whether she wished for the role or not.This is a one-shot from Anathema's perspective. It's part ofThe Solitary Sequel (To Never Knowing Anything At All)but can be read as a standalone story. For Crowley's perspective up until this point see:Can We Dance (Instead of Walking?)





	Everyone's Rooting For You

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, this is a standalone look at Aziraphale's relationship with Crowley from Anathema's perspective. 
> 
> Aziraphale's perspective of this particular story will be written in[The Solitary Sequel (To Never Knowing Anything At All)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19187080/chapters/45610162). For Crowley's perspective up until this point see: [Can We Dance (Instead of Walking?)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264060/chapters/45813511)

Anathema Device woke at precisely 8:00 every day. 

She didn’t need to do this, but she did it anyway. Anathema, despite her fairly scattered appearance — stray hairs framing her face that she absentmindedly blew away when they tickled her nose and cheeks, wearing the same outfit two days in a row — enjoyed having a routine. 

It was, she would later learn on this exact day, something she had in common with the angel Aziraphale. 

Anathema had known of Aziraphale before she had met him, and even upon meeting him gave him very little thought as an individual being with any sort of agency or personality. 

She had been somewhat preoccupied with her familial assignment of stopping the Apocalypse. And once that entire ordeal had been averted it wasn’t as if they had spent any time together. 

This gave her an odd and unusual perspective of the angel named Aziraphale. It was oddly similar to how any average human — or even a celestial being who also happened to be an avid reader, like Aziraphale himself — would regard a character in a novel. She had an estimation of his character from Agnes’ prophecies, his demon partner hitting her with a black vintage car, and the entire scene at Tadfield Air Base.

Sufficed to say, they weren’t friends. 

Anathema barely knew him, and hadn’t seen him since that entire ordeal. She doubted that he had known she had remained in Tadfield instead of returning to California until he had thought to check up on her for this specific matter. 

Yet, on this particular morning when she woke up at her usual time, Anathema knew that Aziraphale would be visiting and said as much to the back of one Newton Pulsifer as he slept on while she sat up abruptly, bedsprings creaking from the sudden movement. 

Anathema may have put aside being a descendent — with a significant amount of trepidation and guilt that was assuaged only by flashes of choice and Newt’s help — but she was still a witch. A perfectly competent witch whose specialties remained prophetic visions and simple household charms.

This specific challenge was going to be amusing, yet difficult. 

Sighing, she rose out of bed, wrapping a tartan bathrobe tightly around her body before tying it neatly and efficiently at the waist. 

She should make some tea. Anathema never seemed to make tea to any English person’s satisfaction, but it seemed to be the proper thing to do given the circumstances. 

There really wasn’t any procedure for entertaining a guest who was also an angel. 

And if Agnes had written about this day, well, Anathema wouldn’t know one way or the other.

***

The angel Aziraphale arrived at precisely 9:00.

He was wringing his hands and looking around the yard as Anathema opened the door to Jasmine Cottage. 

“Can I help you?”

In most instances, it would have been more accurate to say, “How may I help you?” Aziraphale would have corrected what he frequently recognized as a common grammatical mistake (especially among Americans) had he not been so distracted by the subject of his upcoming discussion with Anathema: his love of one Anthony J. Crowley, The Serpent of Eden, née Crawly. 

Anathema also meant this question exactly as intended. She wasn’t certain of her abilities to help Aziraphale whatsoever, and didn’t assume her role as the advisor in this particular exchange by asking “How may I help you?” as if she was an authority who was fully prepared to help. 

For his part, Aziraphale rocked on his heels where he stood. He stopped looking frantically around the yard, and settled his nervous gaze on Anathema, giving a short bow with his hands folded conveniently on the slight paunch of his stomach. 

“My dear girl,” he said. “I don’t know if you recall that entire business with the Antichrist but—“

“I remember.”

Anathema didn’t mean to be rude, but she had the impression that the angel would have gone on for a while before reaching his actual point, rocking nervously on her doorstep the entire time. 

This impression was correct. 

“Ah yes, well, one cannot be too careful in assuming what one remembers,” he said with a wan smile. It was still cheerily lit from within. In fact, looking at Aziraphale was a bit difficult for Anathema since he gave off a slight (albeit calming) glow. His entire presence was pleasing to her in a way that few auras were. She supposed this was due to his angelic nature. 

This impression was only partially-accurate. 

Aziraphale was an angel, but his nature was all his own and, as recent events had proved, much different than other heavenly beings. 

“Please, come in.”

Anathema opened the door a bit wider, gesturing at the cottage interior. Aziraphale gave her another nervous bow and walked quickly inside, ducking his head as he crossed the threshold despite not being anywhere near tall enough to hit it. 

Keeping the pleasantries to a minimum, Anathema nodded at an empty chair at her kitchen table as she sat down across from it. As Aziraphale moved to sit, she slid a mug full of hot tea towards his hands, which were nervously fluttering on the tabletop. She also pushed a plate of biscuits in his direction. 

“I never make it to an English person’s liking but I try,” she said with a self-deprecating grimace. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand it.”

The angel hummed and took a sip. 

“It’s not bad.”

Anathema chose to take this as a compliment. It was certainly more diplomatic than Newt had ever been. 

“What brings you here?” Anathema asked. Again she had the feeling that if she hadn’t addressed the point directly, the angel would have waffled into the afternoon. 

“You are rather direct,” he said with a smile, breathing in steam as it rose from the mug. 

Anathema shrugged. She couldn’t tell if this was supposed to mean that she had been a bit rude.

“I’m American.”

“Ah, quite right.”

He said this with a nod as if Anathema’s statement put everything into perspective for him. The angel then squared his shoulders and looked Anathema directly in the eye. It stunned her a bit. His eyes were bright and focused. 

“My dear girl, you are still a witch, are you not?”

She nodded.

A look of relief crossed his face before it was followed with a slight veil of fear and trepidation. 

Anathema sighed softly. 

“You need a witch for a specific reason.”

She said this as a statement, not a question. 

He tilted his head to the side, a bit confused. 

“I’m not sure exactly,” he said. “After all of that business in Tadfield you were the only human I could think of with which to discuss ah, a matter of a delicate nature.”

This didn’t particularly make Anathema feel good, or necessary to the situation, but it would have to do. 

She nodded. 

The angel continue to wring his hands for approximately fifteen minutes — Anathema counted off in her head — before sighing loudly and looking up at her. 

“Did the Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch say, by any chance, anything about—“

“You and your demon companion?”

Again, Anathema couldn’t help but interrupt because she couldn’t stand the awkwardness. 

“C-companion?”

Aziraphale sputtered and fumbled with one of his waistcoat buttons.

“Y-yes, I suppose Crowley is my, well, that’s why I’m here you see.”

“Beyond the final prophecy?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Yes we managed to solve that one in time,” he said, beaming so brightly she couldn’t help but smile back at him, even while having to avert her eyes for a moment. 

“You and Newt,” Aziraphale began again. “She said things about you two being together.”

“That doesn’t mean we have to be together.”

“Quite right, my dear girl.” 

Aziraphale laughed nervously and took another sip of tea. 

“You came here to ask me if Agnes ever had a prophecy about a romantic relationship between you and your demon partner?”

The angel choked a bit on his tea. Agnes smiled. His mannerisms were so human, had it not been for his aura, she would have assumed him a doddering but endearing professor of some sort. 

“She didn’t say anything about you outside of that one prophecy, playing with fire or something. It was one of her final notations.”

His face fell. Anathema laughed lightly and decided to stop teasing him. 

“She didn’t need to. And if it helps, I thought you two were already involved.”

Aziraphale blushed a bright red.

“Ah. Ahem. Was it because of the prophecy?”

Anathema raised an eyebrow. She resisted rolling her eyes.

“No,” she said simply, leaning forward across the kitchen table to look at him directly. “It was because I have eyes.”

The angel didn’t appear to know how to respond to this, so she continued. 

“He loves you. I don’t need a prophecy to know that. If anything, I would have thought that you were…” 

Here she trailed off for a moment, searching for a polite way to say what she was about to say and finding none. 

“Uninterested.”

Aziraphale fluttered nervously, picking up the ceramic mug and placing it down seconds later without taking a single sip of tea. 

“Ah, it wasn’t that I was uninterested it was that, well, I had Heaven looking after me, not very closely of course or they would have sussed out our Arrangement. Then there was Hell to think about.”

He paused and shuddered.

“Absolutely awful place. I never want him to have to go back there again.”

Anathema nodded. She hadn’t imagined Hell to be a particularly nice place. 

“I suppose I’ve pushed him away for so long I can’t possibly know what to do now, and now he, and my dear girl even though you have said that he, well, I’m an angel. I’m supposed to feel love and I haven’t— I would feel it, right?”

She supposed that he was someone who, on an ordinary day, was eloquent and precise in his speech. At the climax of the near-Apocalypse, he had been commanding and surprisingly calm, telling Crowley that he would never talk to the demon again.

Now he seemed beside himself with anxiety. 

“You know Adam asked me to read his aura once.”

“Did he?”

Anathema hummed affirmatively. 

“I couldn’t sense it.”

Aziraphale looked up at her from his cup of tea inquisitively. 

She smiled again, another half-smile as if she could read his thoughts. An aura like Adam’s would be impossible not to feel, especially for someone like Anathema who had been trained to read them. 

“It wasn’t until after everything had happened that I realized it was because it was so large I couldn’t sense it." 

“Oh.”

A pause. The angel sipped his tea and then placed it down on the table with a start.

“Oh!” 

“You know,” she continued. “I was always a descendent, since I was small.”

She didn’t know why she had chosen to open up to him in this moment. Perhaps it was because he was an angel. Perhaps it was because she sensed a kindred spirit — another being who had suddenly found themselves without a purpose after following one specific path their entire life. Perhaps it was because she was still a witch of prophecy and it seemed like the right response. It felt correct. 

“Agnes sent me another set of prophecies, you know,” she said.

Aziraphale looked up from where he was staring at the dregs of his tea. 

“Ah forgive me for inquiring again, but I had thought you said that there were no further prophecies.”

“I burned them.”

His eyes widened. He coughed. 

“Newt asked me if I wanted to be a descendent my entire life.”

She looked towards the doorway that led up a small flight of stairs towards her bedroom. 

“I didn’t want that. But, sometimes I wish that I still had it, that feeling of safety.”

Aziraphale’s eyes softened. They gleamed with what Anathema thought were unshed tears. 

He really was impossibly human in nature. 

“I shouldn’t have to tell you this, but I’ll say it anyway. He loves you, your Crowley. And I don’t need a prophetic book to know that.”

“My dear girl,” he said, having regained some of his confidence in that moment. “I know.”

He looked shocked to admit this aloud. 

Aziraphale drained the last of the tea and grabbed a biscuit for takeaway. 

“I’ve always known,” he said.


End file.
